


To Feel Again

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boundaries, Bucky Barnes Returns, Coming Out, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Oral Sex, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve, Smut, Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Feel Again

_ Your eyes are burning. You’re tired.      _

Steve pushed the voice of reason out of his mind and straightened in his chair.

His apartment was almost silent, the stillness barely punctured by the occasional hum of a car outside or his clock, a  perpetual heartbeat to the room reminding him that he should go to  bed. 

He knew he could not do that.      

He and Sam had had their first sighting in weeks. Sam had dispatched  Redwing as soon as the facial recognition, now programmed into finding Bucky’s face, alerted them to a match. The chase had been short, Bucky had shaken off the drone and they were back to square  one. Steve had given up on any kind of rest or relaxation ever since;  Bucky was in Washington DC, and he could not find him. The footage  was too quick to make much sense of. They now knew what Bucky was  wearing at least, a grey henley and black combat trousers, all  information that Steve had no clue what to do with.      

Steve rubbed his eyes on the backs of his hands and put his forehead  on the table, on top of the seemingly endless documents and  photographs regarding Bucky's disappearance, feeling the familiar  sense of defeat that had been plaguing him for the last few weeks  wash over him like a tidal wave.     

The fatigue in his muscles made the sobs that followed painful and  dry, itching in tired eyes and painting his cheeks with uncomfortable  wetness. He knew that these tears would have usually turned to rage  before he had the chance to address them, but tonight was not a night  for punched walls, grazed knuckles and bitten lips; he had no energy for that.   

Instead, he let tears shake him until the sun came up and forced him  to move. 

                             ###      

"Cap?" Natasha stood in the doorway of Steve's office quietly.   

The Captain had walked past near enough everyone silently that  morning. Natasha had noticed everything. 

Sunglasses, large coffee  instead of a medium, something in the way he walked that screamed  “I’m struggling.”    

Steve nodded and smiled regardless, not trusting the integrity of his  voice enough to reply verbally. He knew he looked like hell, he did not need to sound like hell too. Natasha entered the room and  frowned, pulling a chair opposite the Captain and sitting down. She  studied his face. He looked exhausted, but then again he had for  weeks, there was no change there.    

"You need sleep," Natasha said quietly, "Steve, you need to go home."    

Steve shook his head, squeezing Natasha's shoulder affectionately in  reassurance.   

"I'm good, Nat," He grinned weakly, "Rough night, but I'm good."    

Natasha sighed and sat back, crossing her arms. Steve tensed in anticipation for the lecture he could feel was going to follow.    

Natasha was loyal and black and white in her friendships. Steve had  protected her, so in turn she was fiercely protective of him, almost  pathologically so. It rubbed off on Sam sometimes, too, manifesting  in texts in the early hours of the morning and croissants turning up  on his kitchen table ("Man's gotta' eat, Steve").   

"Bucky will come when he wants to, Steve," Natasha started, "Running yourself ragged like this, hurting yourself over something you can't  control is...it's a death sentence. You'll drive yourself crazy."    

Steve went to make a comment about how he probably already had driven  himself crazy, but left it out. The concern was poignant on the Widow's face, moulding her striking features into something much softer, almost maternal.   

"Steve, you need to live ," Nat encouraged, prodding Steve's chest,  "Go to a bar, pick someone up, have a god­damned one night stand. You  missed all of that, so take it back."    

Steve felt something in his stomach jolt.   

"No, I can't do that," Steve muttered uncomfortably, "I'm...just no."    

Nat frowned, her eyes narrowing knowingly and her gaze not leaving Steve no matter how hard he squirmed.    

"Why not? You are literally batchellor material 101, get out there.  You need to stop blowing off my matches."    

Steve shook his head and stood up, stretching and feeling his spine  click in protest.   

"There's something else," Nat mused, still homing onto Steve,  "Someone special?"    

Steve sighed, sitting back down heavily. If anyone would understand, it was Natasha. 

It seemed almost silly that he had not told her about  his true feelings for Bucky before now, but there was something, maybe years of persecution in the Forties, that made his sexuality a very quiet and cagey subject in even his own mind. He caught himself trying not to think about it, just like he had when he was a  teenager. 

He had lied to himself for years, convincing his insecure adolescent mind that he could simply 'forget' about being gay, and punishing himself for it with abstinence when he of course, failed.  Then he had met Bucky and it had become impossible to hide from.  Because he did not want to hide. For the first time, he felt like his  skin fit him. He felt right.   

"I love Bucky," Steve admitted flatly.  

"That's what all this is about. It's only ever gonna' be him."    

Natasha tilted her head and pulled Steve's hand across the desk, slotting her fingers through his and squeezing, noticing the emotion rise in Steve's eyes in a way that made her prickle all over.    

"I'm such an idiot," She hissed to herself, embarrassed at her own  lack of awareness.    

Steve breathed a laugh, feeling like a truck had been lifted off of  his chest.   

"I've had seventy years of practice in 'not being gay'," Steve  shrugged, "I'd be more concerned if you had figured it out." 

Natasha smiled, staring at Steve absently, obviously preoccupied with  something. She took a deep breath and furrowed her brow.   

"We'll find him, Steve," She assured, "I promise you we will find  him."    

###   

Bucky stood outside the door of the Captain's apartment. He had tried  to knock too many times now.   

_ Exactly 12 times. _

He went for try thirteen, but faltered again, letting his forehead  fall against the painted green wood. There was something suddenly very suffocating about the small hallway. The beige corridor seemed to narrow and flex around him like it was swallowing him, a smooth  dimly lit oesophagus belonging to some terrible creature with no name. Bucky reckoned its name was probably ‘Panic’, so he left, jogging down the stairwell with his heart in his throat, lodged there and stopping him breathing.   

He stepped out into the alleyway behind the building,taking a burning  breath of fresh air and running his hands over his burning face, cursing his failure. He threw a punch into the brick wall next to  him, little shards of the brick falling at his feet.   

_ Try again. You have nowhere better to be .   _

He took a breath that could not reach the bottom of his lungs fast  enough and ran up the stairs again to repeat the ritual. This time,  it was easier (only five tries this time) and the sound of movement  behind the knocked door was more of a relief than a terror warning.   

"One second!" A male voice called from behind the door, followed by  the sounds of general hurry and disorganisation, "I'm coming."   

Bucky felt his pulse rise, audible in his ears, a thrumming metronome  that felt overwound and urgent.    

The door opened.   

Bucky did not know what to say to the man with a striped towel  wrapped around his waist and a toothbrush stuck behind his ear, so he  said nothing.Steve did not know what to say either, but was hyper aware of the  droplets of water from haphazardly towel ­dried hair running down his  back. 

He was hyper aware of the face he was pulling, tense surprise rendering him silent and motionless in his doorway, stopping him from  throwing his arms around Bucky's neck and holding him forever.    

"I'm sorry," Bucky finally managed, trying not to stare at the  topless Captain, "No time was really a good time. I just wanted to  see you."    

Steve nodded in understanding. Bucky could have rocked up at 3 am for  all he cared. He guided him into the room, still struck dumb by  relief and a pounding anxiety that he would wake up from all of this  in a patch of his own sweat, alone in his bedroom like he usually did  when he dreamed about Bucky.    

Steve reached out, putting his hands on either side of Bucky's face.  The soldier's cheeks were rough with stubble and cold from walking in  the wind, but they were real. They did not distort at his touch like  they would in a dream. No clocks moving backward, no words carried  away by an invisible force leaving you screaming in silence. This was  real. 

Steve gave in, pulling Bucky into a hug, burying his face into  his neck and holding on.   

"Buck," Steve huffed out, feeling tears prickle in his throat, "Buck,  I've missed you."    

Bucky nodded, the damp, soapy ­smelling heat of Steve's shoulder becoming his whole world for a small moment. The aching in every bone  in his body fell away for a moment, replaced with an unstable  softness in his joints that must have been contentment. He had to  battle with himself not to protest when Steve pulled away.   

"I'm going to go and put on...clothes," Steve laughed out  breathlessly, "Sit down."   

Bucky did, watching the Captain disappear down the hall. The couch  was almost too soft, an uncomfortable kind of suction, holding him in  place. He had not known what he had expected when he imagined Steve's apartment, his only real mental image of it being the front door and  the front window, all he had seen from outside.The walls were oatmeal coloured, with a few posters hanging on them  to break up the monotony. The mantle had a miniature statue of a  motorbike on it, a cactus and a photograph of Steve and the Winged  Man, Sam, in military dress with medals pinned to their chests. There  was a full length mirror against the wall with a leather jacket  hanging on the corner (he recognised that jacket) and a tall standing  lamp. The lighting was warm and golden. Bucky felt oddly at home in a  place he had never been before, and he liked it.    

Steve half-­jogged back into the room, wearing sweatpants and a grey t-­shirt and carrying similar looking clothes over his arm. 

He pushed  the bundle into Bucky's arms before sitting in the armchair opposite  him.    

"You can have a shower and everything, change," Steve smiled, "I'll  make you something to eat, or takeout, I'm a lousy cook."    

Bucky smiled back silently, not used to the warmth behind words. There was nothing commanding or threatening. There was care, gentle  authority that was more like guidance, someone taking the wheel in a  situation Bucky could not cope with, but no animosity. He was not  used to it.    

"Talk to me, Bucky," Steve leaned forward a little, "You look  terrified."   

Bucky worked on relaxing his face, sitting back, trying not to frown.   

"I kept seeing you around town, I kept my distance. I was convinced  you wouldn't want me back," Bucky started, feeling a pang of guilt at  the sadness that tinged Steve's face.    

"Then that...flying thing followed me. I knew it belonged to your  friend, so you were looking for me. I decided I'd save you the  search."    

Bucky looked down at his hands, knotting them anxiously in front of  him, the metal one whirring embarrassingly loudly in the quiet room.  The Captain looked at the arm with reserved concern.   

"It does that sometimes," Bucky warned, "When I'm nervous, pissed  off. Anything that raises my heart rate."    

Steve nodded and stood up slowly, sensing Bucky was on edge and sat  down next to him on the couch. He lifted the metal arm gently, maintaining eye contact with the soldier, reading his face for any  sign of discomfort or fear. Seeing none, just anticipation, Steve put  the arm across his lap, studying it up close for the first time.    

It was made up of interlocking sheathes of metal, all held together  with hidden rivets and joints that let it flex fluidly. It was not as cold as Steve had expected, tainted by Bucky's body heat and feeling  strangely human and alive. Steve locked fingers with it, squeezing  gently and feeling the plates respond to the pressure.  

 "Can you feel that?" Steve asked, "When I squeeze?"   

Bucky nodded.   

"A little. I can sense the pressure, but no real texture or  temperature."    

Steve nodded, running his fingers up through the grooves between the  plates, like tectonic boundaries.   

"It's kind of beautiful," Steve mused, more to himself.   

Bucky stared, enthralled by the lack of inhibition on Steve's part.  People feared the arm, it made them uncomfortable. He had it strapped  down or removed when he was with Hydra, for the safety of everyone  around him . Steve seemed totally unfazed, just curious. It was the  most human Bucky had felt for years. Not some dangerous machine to be  treated with kid ­gloves and caution.   

He watched as the Captain pored over the arm, lifting it every now  and then, making sense of it in a way no one ever had. he would bend  Bucky's fingers gently, or click the rivets in his palm, only looking  up every now and then for a nod of permission from Bucky that told  him he could continue.   

"You aren't scared of me," Bucky said quietly, keeping his eyes on  Steve.   

Steve shook his head, frowning as if to say "of course not". 

The  Captain moved up, feeling the parts of the arm covered in t­shirt  with the tips of his fingers before letting his hand rest on Bucky's  neck. Bucky felt a twinge of embarrassment as his cheeks coloured,  blushing right back to his ears. He was not looking into Steve's eyes  anymore, but at his knees.   

"I'm not scared of you," Steve confirmed, pushing Bucky's hair behind  his ear.    

Bucky nodded. For once, he believed it.                       

###       

Steve listened as the water kicked on in the bathroom. He laid back on the couch, staring at the ceiling of his living room. He grinned  to himself, breathing a sigh of calm. The walls of his small  apartment felt a little less prison-­like. There was a warmth that he  had missed from the moment that he had moved in. He had remembered  unpacking the boxes, tidying and sorting over and over, at a loss as  to why it felt no more like a home. He realised now that no amount of  rearrangements of his furniture would have fixed it. His 'home'  needed Bucky.   

The Captain felt sleep approach him faster than it had in months, and  in a comfortable lull rather than a desperate oblivion when his body  finally gave up.    

"Steve?"    The loud whisper pulled him awake with a jolt.    

"Sorry," Steve groaned, stretching and rubbing his eyes, "I'm up."   

Steve looked at Bucky. I was odd seeing someone else in his own clothes, but much nicer to see Bucky looking comfortable than anything, his hair tucked behind his ears in messy, damp tresses and finally wearing clothes that weren't black or armoured.   

"Feel better?" Steve asked, chucking a blanket at Bucky and standing  up, getting a pillow from the laundry hamper in the kitchen and  handing that to him as well.   

Bucky nodded, his skin finally not covered in a film of outside dust  and sweat and some of the knots in his shoulders starting to unwind.   

"Yeah," Bucky laughed, "Less gross, anyway."   

Steve grinned, tucking a rogue hair that was stuck to Bucky's  forehead behind his ear. Bucky stepped into the contact, leaning back  into a hug that was just as good as the first. It stopped being a  passing thought, a craving, and started being a need. The affection  that had been totally absent for so many years was there, easy and  instant and it took a moment for Bucky to assure himself that it was  not going to go away or be erased from his memory like every other  hug and touch had. 

He held on tighter this time, running his fingers  back through Steve's hair and pressing his nose into the Captain's neck. Steve exhaled shakily, letting his hand on the small of Bucky's  back rise past the hem of his t­shirt.   

Bucky's skin was hot, and still damp from the shower. Steve mirrored  one hand with the other, putting his hands solidly on Bucky's hips  and pulling him closer. The hammering of his own pulse in his ears  was all he could hear.   

"I've missed you so  much," Steve sighed.    

The movement of the Captain's mouth against his jaw made Bucky's hair stand up. He turned almost instinctively, pressing his lips against  the Steve's in a messy unplanned kissed, bumping teeth with him.  Steve gasped into the kiss,angling himself so that their noses did not crush and they locked together more comfortably.    

It was like being submerged in hot water after walking miles in the  snow, a slow, blissful thawing out. The movement of kissing soon came  as second nature for Bucky, fluid and easy. He did not have to try.  

The pair stumbled back, falling onto the couch in a tangle of limbs  and lips that did not want to be separated for even a moment. Steve grabbed Bucky's thighs, sliding him forward on his lap and moving his  lips to his neck, smiling into the heat when Bucky let his head lull willingly.   

"God, you are perfect," Bucky gasped, feeling his chest tighten with  unfamiliar warmth as Steve pulled his shirt over his head before  coming back in for more, his lips colliding with anything they could­  collarbones, shoulders.    

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, a heady inebriation in  each other's touch. Steve paused for a moment to guide Bucky shirt  over his head, dropping it with his own. The steel disks of the arm whirred, thrumming with a gentle rhythm that Steve could time with  Bucky's heartbeat.   

"I want you," Steve breathed, his teeth grazing against Bucky's  chest, "I want every   part of you."   

Bucky made hummed low in the back of his throat, pushing his hips  down against Steve's involuntarily as a harsh ebb of arousal took him  by surprise. Steve responded, holding Bucky's hips where they were  and repeating the motion with his own, feeling himself harden against  the friction and pressure.   

"Can you remember that time we both came back from a mission in  Germany?" Steve said breathlessly, shuffling Bucky's sweatpants down  to mid thigh, "In the barracks?"   

Bucky did, fondly. He had walked into the large, green tent and had  no time to utter a word before Steve had pushed him down onto one of  the cots. It had been heated and hurried, but perfect. Feelings had a  way of amplifying when you thought you were going to lose someone.    

"I thought we would never beat that," Steve continued, "Didn't think  anything would feel as good as that. I was wrong."    

Bucky chuckled, unwrapping his legs from Steve's waist to pull off  his sweatpants completely, doing the same with Steve before kissing a  line down the Captain's stomach, revelling in every tiny motion and  sound that the man made. He was in tune with it, letting the  movements guide his next move, telling him where to go.   

"I thought I would never feel this again, period," Bucky shook his  head, "I've needed this for decades."    

Steve surrendered himself over to the soldier, letting his head rest  back against the couch cushions as Bucky palmed him through his boxers before pulling them down and rubbing in firm strokes that made  Steve struggle to catch his breath for the first time since 1942.  

Bucky's left hand was holding him steady, a cool steel anchor pinning  him to the couch.   

"You didn't forget _ everything _ ," Steve chuckled out weakly. 

Bucky  kissed Steve's jaw, sucking a hickey into the already blushing skin.   

"There was no way I was going to forget how to make you make that  sound, Rogers," Bucky said quietly, his voice hoarse with arousal and  depth. 

It went straight to Steve's chest, toppling him over the edge  almost immediately.   

"Jesus Christ, Buck!" Steve hissed, knotting his fist in a handful of  brown hair, holding Bucky's kiss in place as he finished.    

Steve flipped Bucky over, reversing them so that he was top. He  sucked a kiss into the soldier's left hipbone that he knew would  leave a mark before taking him into his mouth. 

The room fell into a  rhythmic silence, punctuated only by occasional gasps from Bucky or  the sound of the couch getting used to having two people on it for  the first time in too long. 

The flow was simple to fall into, a slow  indulgent rocking motion, torturously slow. Steve was becoming quite  fond of the feeling of metal fingers over too-­hot skin and looked  forward to the moments when cold fingertips would trail down the tape  of his neck, or tighten almost too much in his hair making goosebumps break out over his back.  

 " Steve ..." Bucky managed to whisper out breathily, his voice  climbing, "Stevie, you're gonna' kill me like that."    

Steve took Bucky into his mouth as deep as he could one last time  before the soldier fell headlong into climax, cussing like Steve had  never heard him before and shuddering into silence like a motorcycle  with the gas cut.    

Stillness fell over them both. Calm. Steve sensed it was a calm that  neither of them had felt in a while, so savoured the utter  contentment of lying with his head on Bucky's stomach, feeling the  rise and fall of breaths against his cheek. Bucky's fingers were  carding absently through Steve's hair, drawing shapes in the golden  strands.   

"I'm a' fall asleep if you keep that up," Steve warned, nuzzling  closer into the softness of hot skin and muscle.   

Bucky hummed in agreement, close enough to sleep himself.   

"See you in the morning, Steve," Bucky mumbled warmly, fatigue  slurring his speech.    Steve sighed and surrendered to sleep, happy for the first time in  years


End file.
